


Silk and Sin

by SilverBlueFire



Series: Silk and Sin [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Grimmauld Place, Masturbation, My First Work in This Fandom, Overthinking, Past Relationship(s), Ritual Sex, Ron Weasley Bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBlueFire/pseuds/SilverBlueFire
Summary: "He couldn’t please a witch if his life depended on it," Ron sneered at Snape.In which Dumbledore proposes an unorthodox spell, Ron is an ass, and Severus makes him eat his words.





	1. Binding

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Certain Dark Wizard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910687) by [IShouldBe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShouldBe/pseuds/IShouldBe). 



“It’s an old ritual,” said Dumbledore evasively when Hermione tried to pin him down to specifics. “It would give you an extra element of protection should you find yourself in a situation where your Occulmency shields aren’t sufficient.”

She narrowed her eyes at him across the table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and crossed her arms.

“And this ritual must be performed on me why?” She did not trust the Headmaster’s refusal to give details.

“Yeah, not that I don’t want you protected, Hermione, but I thought it was my Occulmency shields we were worried about?” Harry chimed in from between George and Remus. “I mean, Voldemort isn’t doing a lot of digging around in her head.”

“My dear boy, of course I want you to learn Occulmency. But this ritual would allow Miss Granger to contact Professor Snape in an emergency and have his help keeping her mind from being invaded. We cannot perform the ritual for you because Voldemort might sense Severus’s connection.”

“You still haven’t explained what the ritual is,” Hermione pushed. Harry didn’t look particularly convinced either.

Dumbledore smiled at her. “It is an old ritual performed by pairs needing to communicate over long distances. The shared Occulmency is a happy side effect.”

“What the Headmaster is not telling you is that this ritual was usually performed by lovers who wanted to stay in contact during a journey,” Snape said suddenly. “He has also neglected to mention that I have refused to perform it unless Miss Granger is explicitly informed of all actions necessary to complete the spell.”

“A connection between lovers,” Harry said skeptically. “Hermione and…” he nodded pointedly in the direction of their professor.

“Who’d want her as a lover?” interrupted Ron sulkily. Hermione glared at the youngest male Weasley, well aware that his outburst was more likely do to her refusal to sleep with him than any real thought about their professor.

Snape merely arched a silent eyebrow.

“Well, that is the usual use,” Dumbledore hurried on as if Ron had not spoken. “But of course, Severus and Miss Granger don’t need to be…”

“What the Headmaster means,” Snape said sharply, “is that the ritual does not require an emotional connection between the participants. What it does require is for both parties to achieve orgasm.”

The kitchen went very quiet. Hermione, rather taken aback both by the professor’s candor and by his apparent willingness to conduct the ritual despite what it entailed, did not see Ron’s rising color quickly enough to kick him into silence.

“Well then there’s no way the ritual would work, not with how frigid Hermione is.”

She wanted to bristle and indeed was straightening from her spot against the wall to do so, but Snape beat her to it.

“Undoubtedly Miss Granger has lacked the proper encouragement from her previous… partners.” His velvet voice drenched the word with derision, leaving no room to doubt that he did not consider any such people her lovers.

Hermione wasn’t sure which emotion was more prominent, her irritation that her ex-boyfriend and her professor were discussing her sexual history in front of the entire Order, or the interest that sparked from Snape’s soft words. Merlin, he had a nice voice. And frankly—she appraised him with a critical eye just for the sake of considering the ritual—between that and his depthless eyes and long capable fingers she could think of worse people to sleep with. One was still running his mouth about her standoffish bedroom habits.

“Ron,” Harry interrupted sharply. “Now really isn’t the time…”

“Now is the perfect time,” Ron snapped. “If Hermione’s thinking about fucking Snape, maybe we should let her.”

They were now completely off topic which, Hermione reflected, happened irritatingly often when Ron was holding a grudge. Merlin, she’d broken up with him almost two months ago, but he still took every opportunity to spit vitriol at her. He kept speaking.

“Hermione’s a fucking prude and he,” Ron sneered nastily across the table, “he couldn’t please a witch if his life depended on it. If the ritual calls for getting a witch off, pygmy puffs will fly first.”

Snape gave Ron the coldest look Hermione had ever seen leveled at another human being, rose, crossed the kitchen in four long strides, and… oh Merlin. 

She wasn’t sure what she registered first, his long fingers twisting into the hair at the back of her head, his solid thigh pressed firmly between her legs, the warm scent of his skin, or the demanding mouth that closed over hers. She might have fallen but for his body bracing hers against the kitchen wall as her head swam with the sudden onslaught of sensation. She definitely whimpered, maybe even mewled. Severus swallowed the sounds, the hand not occupied with her hair splaying flat against the small of her back and drawing her further onto his thigh. 

His mouth was silk and sin, coaxing hers open with firm pressure, teasing her tongue, and biting gently at her lips. Sweet Circe the man could kiss. Warmth built where he pressed against her core. Hermione tried to reciprocate the kiss, but he bit her tongue when she tried to slide it into his mouth the way he had with hers. She tried again, tentatively, only to receive a rough growl in response. The sound reverberated in her chest and down between her legs sparking desire as fierce as she had ever known.

Mouth still firmly planted against hers, Severus pressed harder between her legs. Hermione groaned as her clit suddenly throbbed with need, and before the thought could fully form in her brain, she rolled her hips into his solid thigh, grinding with just the right amount of friction. Heat built in her core, molten need fueled by the demanding way he kissed her. She clutched his robes, desperate for more. There was no kitchen. There was no Order watching. There was only his mouth and hands and his thigh right where she could ride it. She worked herself against him franticly. 

She came with a suddenness that shocked even her. Sweet golden bliss exploded from her clit expanding into her core and tingling in her breasts like an electric shock. She moaned into Severus’s talented mouth, panting, slowing her rolling hips to draw out the pleasure, realizing only then that his hand on her back had guided her movements.

When Severus released her, Hermione nearly collapsed onto the kitchen floor. She staggered gasping and flushed and too stunned and satisfied to be embarrassed that she had just had an orgasm in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place right in front of the entire fucking Order. Not just any orgasm either. It had been better by half than any orgasm she’d had outside of using a vibrator.

Ron was gaping at her in disbelief and not a little horror. Harry’s mouth had fallen open, but his eyes were dark with interest and locked on the dark potions master. Every unmarried (and not a few quite happily married) woman in the Order was gaping at Snape as if they were going to jump him right then and there. Hermione felt vaguely privileged that he had chosen her for his demonstration. Fuck if her clit wasn’t still tingling delightfully.

“You… that’s… did you curse her?” Ron spluttered.

It was George who answered. “Ronnikins if you think you need a spell to make a woman moan like that you must be one sad lay.”

Ron turned a rather alarming (and extremely unattractive) shade of puce.

Severus turned gracefully on one heel and regarded Hermione. “Whenever you are ready to proceed, Miss Granger, you know where to find me.”

He exited the kitchen with an eloquent swirl of black robes leaving Hermione breathless in his wake. Suddenly even without details she really wanted to go through with the ritual. If he had given her an orgasm like that with only his thigh, Merlin only knew what he could do with his hands or, gods, his tongue. Circe and Nimue that man certainly knew how to please a woman.


	2. Bonding

She hadn’t meant to seek him out, truly, but the fact was that even if he wasn’t the best lover a woman could have—Hermione had only one data point after all and she liked solid evidence before drawing a conclusion—the fact remained that war was upon them and they needed every advantage. She could do this for herself, but she truly was also doing it for Harry. Never mind that despite Harry’s hatred of the man, he also apparently found their potions master undeniably attractive and would probably happily complete the ritual himself. Hermione couldn’t blame him in the slightest.

So, Monday evening after the weekend Order meeting when Hermione found herself descending into the dungeons after dinner, she was not surprised with herself. Whatever Ron might think, she was not an ice queen. Snape had made her feel damn good, and she was not about to deny it. She wanted to feel that way again and if the ritual provided an excuse, so much the better.

Nevertheless, knocking on the austere potion master’s door required a not insignificant amount of courage. Hermione did not allow herself to hesitate and tried not to wince at the cannon-like sound of her knuckles against the wood. 

When the professor opened his door, he regarded her without surprise, black eyes threatening to swallow her whole. “Miss Granger.”

Hermione swallowed despite herself. “I would like to know more about the ritual that the Headmaster proposed, if you are available sir.”

His eyebrow curved upwards but otherwise his facial expression did not change expression. “Of course, Miss Granger,” he purred. “Won’t you come in?”

Oh Merlin, it was going to take everything she had to even attempt an actual conversation with him without shoving her hand between her legs just to get some relief. His short greeting alone had her hot and bothered. Did he know the affect his voice had? Hermione gave herself a sharp internal shake. She absolutely was not mesmerized by her professor’s smooth, sinful voice…

“Would you care for some tea, Miss Granger?”

She should admit defeat before she did something even more mortifying than showing up at her professor’s door to discuss a sex ritual. Was he trying to make her legs give out? His words weren’t even arousing. It was entirely the tone of his voice, the soft promise of pleasure gliding across her senses. She wondered how long she could last if he started talking dirty, whispering filthy suggestions while his practiced fingers trailed up her thigh…

Hermione realized that she was staring at her professor’s throat and hadn’t answered his question. She jerked her gaze up to his face and was arrested by the knowing smirk that lingered on the corners of his lips. Legilimens, she thought horrified. He knew precisely what fantasies she had him starring in.

“Er, no thank you, professor,” she said, flushing crimson. 

“If you are certain, Miss Granger, perhaps some other refreshment could be found,” he offered in a silken tone. Hermione trembled.

“I really did come here to talk about the ritual, sir,” she forced herself to say. “Since you and Professor Dumbledore think it is so important.”

“Of course, Miss Granger. Have a seat.”

Hermione came to her senses sufficiently to walk to the plain sofa in front of the fire. Snape sat across from her in what she guessed to be his favorite armchair.

“The ritual is from the Celtic tradition,” he began. “I have found references to it by Morgan le Fey and Rowena Ravenclaw.”

Hermione frowned. “If it is in the Celtic tradition then it will have layers interwoven in the binding. There will be different levels at which participants can connect…” 

She caught herself as she started rambling. Snape knew the ritual for better than she; he did not need her pointless rendition of known magic traditions. And she didn’t want him to see her as the know-it-all now of all times. Not if they were going to…

“Indeed, Miss Granger. The levels, as you so eloquently put it, are determined by how intimate the couple is. A single orgasm from the receptive party”—Hermione suppressed a shiver—“is sufficient for a base level of communication. For the full effect”—gods, she was going to melt right off his sofa into a puddle of desire on the floor—“sexual congress is required with the spell triggered at the moment of mutual release.”

Her mouth was so dry she didn’t know if she could speak. “Is… have…” Apparently her brain had also disconnected. Hermione forced down her pounding heart and crossed her legs in what she knew was probably an obvious indication of her desire. Snape regarded her steadily and after a moment, longer than that if she were honest, Hermione got ahold of herself again.

“Have you a recommendation for the level that would be most, er,” she hesitated. The word she wanted to use was ‘appropriate’, but somehow that insinuated too much. “Useful,” she finished feebly. 

“To guarantee a strong connection, I believe intercourse is advisable.”

As the warm embers in her core shifted towards a dancing flame, she wondered idly if there was a word that his decadent voice could not turn into an innuendo.

“And,” she realized suddenly she had been assuming he was agreeable to all this, “you are willing…” She found that she could not say it. If he said no, she wouldn’t be able to stand the embarrassment.

“Miss Granger,” Snape said steadily in an entirely different tone. “Loath though I am to look upon a student with sexual intent, you are more than of age and shortly will be my student no longer. As such, I will have absolutely no difficulty fucking you.”

The abrupt expletive slashed apart any defenses she had left. Hermione felt herself let out a soft moan.

Across from her, the dark potions master rose from his seat. “Shall we, Miss Granger?”

Desperate to get his hands on her, Hermione all but ran after him into the bedroom. The enormous bed she found there hardly registered because Snape had turned to face her and was slowly unbuttoning the top of his frock coat. Alabaster skin exposed to her eyes, even in such slim quantities, only fanned the flames.

“May I?” she managed, because Merlin help her, his buttons.

“If you wish.”

She could not look at him while she slipped button through buttonhole down the long length of his torso. The embarrassment was gone, but his eyes would undue her if she risked sinking into their black abyss. Hermione forced herself instead to take her time with the coat because when else would she ever be allowed to touch him like this again.

He spoke while she worked.

“The ritual is quite simple; indeed, it is only considered a ritual because of its sexual nature. At the moment just prior to orgasm I will cast Legilimens. You will open your mind to me, and I will speak the words of the binding as we orgasm.”

Her practical mind surfaced just long enough to ask, “Isn’t simultaneous orgasm difficult to achieve?”

A long-fingered hand captured her chin and forced her eyes upwards. “Do you believe me incapable of such a task?”

“No.” She said with soft conviction after she remembered to breathe. She recalled the previous evening in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. He had brought her to orgasm in the space of ninety seconds with his thigh and a kiss. If that did not bespeak his mastery of the art of pleasure, she did not know what could.

Hermione returned to her task only to find that there were no more buttons to undo, at least on his coat. Before she could reach for the starched collar of his impeccably white shirt, he waved a hand, and her flesh prickled as her clothes vanished from her body and reappeared neatly folded on the bureau to her right. As if he needed nonverbal and wandless magic to make him more desirable.

“On the bed, Miss Granger.”

She complied at once. He did not give her long to feel exposed, shedding his coat and following her movement to arch over her. Hermione bit her lip for just a moment before a long low cry work its way out of her. Severus smiled into her throat and slowly, oh so slowly worked skilled fingers up the inside of her thigh. She spread her legs for him, uncaring if she seemed wanton. She unquestionably was.

Then his fingers reached her clitoris and all she could think was, yes.

Her insides grew hot as her body began to tense with desire. Sweet sparks of need started to burst in her flesh, extending deeper into her core with each press of his fingers. She pressed her hips into his touch, heedless of the sounds escaping her mouth. Gods have mercy, this man must be a divine gift to women. It must be sinful to feel this good, and she hadn’t even come yet. But the tingles in her belly said that that delight wasn’t far beyond the horizon.

Severus mouthed at her neck, biting gently once he had drawn her blood to the surface of her skin. The bruises stung faintly, making the gentle touch of his fingers even sweeter. Hermione keened as his calloused thumb rubbed her swollen clit. Then her breath caught as he deftly slid two long fingers into her velvety warmth and pressed in just the right spot.

Her body seized around his hand as the pressure triggered a chain reaction, starting in her clit and washing up from her belly to tighten her nipples and down from her thighs to curl her toes. She panted and moaned between spasms, clutching helplessly at Severus’s back.

He let her ride the tide to completion and pulled away. She blinked her eyes open to watch him unbutton his cuffs and couldn’t help her licentious gaze descending to the considerable bulge in his black trousers. Her stomach sank unexpectedly.

“You… you didn’t have to… I mean the ritual didn’t mean you had to… when I haven’t…”

“If you think for an instant, Hermione,” her name was a taunt and a dare, “that I will fuck you without first wringing from your body every possible ounce of pleasure, then Mr. Weasley has sorely addled your brain.”

She didn’t know how she could laugh and drip arousal at once. Then his fingers, slick with her desire, dragged deliberately across her clitoris, and her laugh became a throaty moan. She could voice no more objections, especially as a moment later she felt his weight shift on the bed and a hot mouth brushed her upper thigh.

“Fuck!” she gasped at the first hint of his tongue against her.

It was too much. It was not enough. It was the most exquisite torture. It was the most savage delight. Her body condensed to a single point under his mouth, and it felt for a moment that she stopped breathing. Nothing could possibly feel this good especially a mouth between her legs. The last time she had felt a tongue there it had reminded her of a dying flobberworm thrashing weakly against her. But this, this felt like, it felt like… She didn’t have the words, but it was heavenly. It felt even better when he lifted her hips with both hands to press her more firmly against his mouth. She writhed under him, wanting to move, to help, but desperate to hold still, to let him just. Lick. Right. There.

“Severus,” she groaned, his name leaving her lips for the first time in her life. She could not see him smile against her core, but she felt his lips an instant later as they closed over her clit and sucked.

Hermione was not a screamer and never would be, but suddenly she could understand why some people would scream from something like this. Pleasure as intense as lightning surged through her as she peaked again and crashed into a sea of molten bliss. Sparks exploded behind her eyelids and even the movement of her breath felt like an extension of the throbbing, visceral joy spreading through her being.

She hadn’t known she was capable of pleasure back to back like that. Certainly no one else had ever done such a thing to her. Even her own thorough exploration after puberty hadn’t revealed the capability of that miracle. Hermione tried to remember to breathe slowly because if she passed out, she wouldn’t get to experience whatever he did to her next.

Severus straightened over her and stepped off the bed to efficiently discarded his remaining clothes. Hermione watched with fascination as the corded muscle moved on his torso and felt her mouth go dry as he stripped off his trousers. 

“Please,” she whispered. “No more teasing.”

“That was not teasing, witch,” he growled. “This is.”

He touched her oversensitive clitoris with the lightest brush of his hand, and Hermione’s entire body tensed, waiting for more. But he took his hand away and raised an eyebrow at her. Then he did it again.

“Severus. Gods, please. I need you inside me.”

“Say it properly, witch.”

Hermione gathered enough wits to do more than moan desperately. “Please, Severus. I need you to fuck me.”

A wicked grin took over his face and his eyes lit with dark intent. He prowled back towards her, naked and glorious, a dangerous predator. He put a knee on the bed and trailed a hand lightly down her chest, bypassing both breasts. She realized he was holding his wand and waited for him to put it aside. Before he did, he tapped Hermione’s low belly and murmured a charm she did not catch. She did not need to hear it to know its intent and smiled gratefully, if a little dazedly, at him. Then the charm was forgotten as he reclaimed his place between her thighs. His mouth brushed hers, teasing and light as he shared the taste of her desire with her. Then he reached between them to guide his cock into her core.

The first brush of the head between her slick thighs made her legs tremble against his hips. Her tenuous grip on reality slackened, and in one fatal movement his thick cock slid deep into her belly. Slicked by her desire her body provided no resistance against the smooth intrusion. With his cock inside her, she could barely think. But, sweet Circe could she feel.

Her breasts felt swollen under his hands. Her skin was hot, her clit throbbed deliciously, and her pelvis sang with each thrust. Severus was not gentle, but she was so prepared and relaxed that he hardly needed to be. He felt wonderful inside her, not so large as to be uncomfortable but large enough to stretch her in all the right places. 

Hermione, limp with expended pleasure, tried to tilt her hips to give him a better angle, but her limbs were uncooperative. She whined a little with the effort, not wanting to disappoint him, until Severus kissed her and murmured, “Relax.”

She let him lift one thigh over his shoulder, and oh, this angle was even better. Her head lolled as she gave up trying to force her pleasure weakened muscles to cooperate, and somehow, impossibly, she began to rise yet again on the golden wave.

She did not know how long it lasted, only that every once in a while, Severus would change the angle or speed of his thrusts. Each time he seemed to hit more nerve endings until her entire pelvis was awash with need. She had never come just from penetration before, but gods below his cock was ecstasy. She was so close.

“Look at me,” Severus rumbled.

Hermione dragged her eyes open to meet his gaze. He did not speak the spell, but she felt him slip into her mind, caress her there just as he caressed her clitoris, and she fractured into light. She came with a soft groan, soft only because her core was clenching so hard with it was difficult for air to escape her chest. She felt Severus pulse inside her not an instant later, and magic ignited between them, sweeping her away into a torrent of fireworks and ecstasy.

When she was coherent again, which was about the time Severus reached for his wand to cast a mild cleaning charm, she knew she really needed to get dressed and get back to her dorm. If curfew hadn’t already passed, it would shortly. Reluctantly, sore and sated, she heaved herself out of Severus’s bed and went to the dresser to pull on her uniform. 

She jumped when she heard a soft chuckle, one that her ears did not catch.

“That’s…”

“That’s the bond, yes,” said Severus from his bed, his tone amused and lethargic. “When I am not Occluding, which is almost never these days, you will be able to hear me. If you require help when I am Occluding, you need merely brush the connection. If I can, I will reach out to you.”

“I cannot reach out to you?”

“You are the receptive party so no, you cannot. You should not need to often. The point is for me to have a safe method of transferring information when I cannot send a physical message. If you require my help Occluding, I will feel it.”

“I am pleased it worked,” said Hermione, half dressed and suddenly awkward.

He sat up to look at her. “I should hope you are pleased, witch.”

She shivered and with effort shoved it down. She had just had the best three orgasms of her life, and it was nearly curfew. She would not jump him just because his voice was… his voice. She finished putting on her clothes, sent a final glance at the sinfully capable man on the bed, and headed towards the door.

Hermione paused as she reached for the handle. “Thank you, Professor Snape,” she said hoping he would understand what she meant.

“You are most welcome, Miss Granger.”

Hermione turned to go before his voice arrested her once more.

“And Miss Granger,” the faintest hint of a smirk traced his mouth. “Should Mr. Weasley continue to make an arse of himself and drive you to seek diversion, you will find that my door is generally open should you find yourself in need of… assistance.”


	3. Bound

She didn’t know how exactly she and Ron had fallen back together at the conclusion of the war, truly. She had never intended it, never really wanted it, but three years of gut-rending terror and desperation had taken its toll on even her stalwart heart. Ron was easy, Ron was safe, and most of all Ron was close. She never had to reach far to find him and for a long time that was far more important.

Sometimes she wished that she and Harry could have fallen in together. Harry was not Ron. He was not lazy and demanding, and that would have been a vast improvement, but he was also not interested in women in the slightest. Hermione could admit that she found him attractive—never in Ron’s hearing, she had no wish to have that particular fight—but there was no possibility of more. And truly, she did not want Harry. It was merely that despite her need for a solid presence at her side, she did not want Ron either.

That did not mean that when the war ended, she felt able to drop him as she knew she should. Not at first. When Harry first staggered back to them, tired and shaken but nonetheless victorious, with Tom’s body lying unseeing behind him, Hermione had hugged him and Ron together, determined that they would always be as close as they felt in that moment, filthy and haggard but alive and together. Always together.

That conviction had persisted only until Ron returned to the vapid, jealous person he had been before the war. Harry had ducted out of the spotlight the first chance he had, but Ron basked in fame like he was a cold-blooded reptile in the sun. He could not get enough. 

“Come on, ‘Mione,” Ron moaned. “You’ve gotta come with me! I can’t show up alone. What will the Prophet say?”

“I could not care less what that rag chooses to report. I am not going, Ronald,” she snapped. 

“But ‘Mione!”

His whinging was giving her a headache.

“If you want to go, go,” she said flatly. “But leave me out of it.”

She had had quite enough fame and celebrity, and anyways, she was tired. The war had left most of them with little energy for trifles. Not Ron of course. He stormed off angrily leaving her alone in Grimmauld Place kitchen until the slam of the front door brought Harry down the stairs.

“He tried to convince you again?” her best friend asked sympathetically.

“I think ‘convince’ is giving him too much credit, Harry. That implies he actually had an argument.”

Harry sat next to her with the scrape of wooden chair legs on stone. “You don’t have to keep putting up with this you know. Despite what he thinks, you would have my support if you split.”

“He saved our lives more than once, Harry,” Hermione trotted out the old argument that she had used for months now to remind herself why she did keep putting up with this. They never mentioned how many times they had saved his. “It doesn’t seem right to cast him off.”

“Have you heard from Severus lately?” Harry asked calmly, an apparent non-sequitur.

Hermione glared at him.

“Because I think he did far more to keep us alive than Ron ever did, and if we’ve cast anyone off, I think it would be him.”

“He asked to be left alone,” Hermione argued. She did not want to talk about this. There was a tether in the back of her brain that would start to itch if she did, and she was determined not to disturb the person at the other end. 

“He asked the public to leave him alone,” Harry corrected. “He was tired. Is tired. We all were. But I don’t think he meant for you to ignore him. And I thought you were starting to like him.”

Hermione closed her eyes, pressing her palm against one eye. Where was her oblivious best friend who wouldn’t know a crush if it were a snitch under his nose? She tugged her Occulmency shields, perfected by years of necessity, tighter before she answered.

“My opinion of Severus has nothing to do with Ron,” she said as neutrally as possible.

“I think it does,” said Harry. “Ron doesn’t make you smile. But you smiled for Severus when we were saying our goodbyes in the wood before going after Tom. You kissed Ron, but you didn’t smile at him.”

“That doesn’t mean…”

“Just think about it, Hermione. You don’t have to stay with Ron because you think people want you to or because you feel obligated. Think about what you actually want.”

He squeezed her hand on the table companionably and left the kitchen leaving Hermione with a stomach (and perhaps a head) full of nargles. 

What did she want? If someone had asked her that before the war, she would have said something hopelessly naïve about fixing the Ministry or earning muggleborns an equal place in society. During the war all she wanted was to stay alive and for all of her friends to stay alive. What did she want now? The war had been over for nearly three months, and the world was slowly regaining a sense of normalcy. She could afford to think more than five minutes ahead now. So, what did she want?

She supposed that she wanted to be happy, whatever the hell that meant. She’d thought that she was happy. Not all of her friends had survived, but Harry had, and yes Ron, and Severus. At any rate she hoped Severus was her friend. They had interacted often enough during the war, mostly across their bond but a few times in person. He had always seemed grateful to see or hear from her, and she in turn had unquestionably been relieved whenever he demonstrated that Voldemort had not killed him. She hadn’t realized until now just how much she had counted on his steady presence throughout the war. His knowledge had twice saved Harry when her friend was dying from a spell she had not known how to treat. He had offered advice for living in a war zone as much as he had given information that allowed for their survival. And, on the rare occasions they had had time to talk about things other than desperate plans of attack or equally desperate retreats, he had proved a steady companion, one she genuinely liked despite his many years as a less than friendly professor. So yes, she considered Severus—and he had been Severus both to her and Harry since the horrible winter when Ron had abandoned them—a friend. But was the friendship mutual?

She wanted it to be, that much she could say for certain. She truly did like him, as did Harry though he might not openly admit it. Severus was compassionate and kind, traits he hid behind cold disdain, and he was as determined to see Harry through the war as she had been. His intellect was a trait she would admire in anyone, so that could hardly hurt her opinion. And of course, there were his other traits, ones he had demonstrated to great affect the night they had formed the bond.

The thought of the bond pulled Hermione back to herself, sitting alone in the kitchen in Grimmauld Place where her first inklings of Severus as something other than her dour potions master had sparked.

She had not touched their bond in months, and her Occulmency shields had reached the point where he could not easily touch her. He had always respected her privacy, and she knew he would not intrude upon her now with all mortal threats vanquished and gone. She wished he would, and she was relieved that he wouldn’t.

Hermione sighed, frustrated with her own indecision. Without the bond between Severus and herself, she had no doubts that both she and Harry and perhaps Severus would have been killed. On that score she could not regret it, but every touch served to remind her of its formation, the heated pleasure she had shared with a man who she dared not approach a second time. Not because she doubted their compatibility: the precise opposite in fact. Having felt the flame of his passion once—twice, but she did not count the incident in the kitchen—and the power of his being every moment since, Hermione knew that she would not be able to leave satisfied with only the intimacy of their bodies a second time. And that had kept her end of the bond closed since Tom Riddle had fallen dead almost a season ago.

What did she want, Harry had asked? Well, she wanted many things, but what she absolutely, unequivocally did not want was to make Severus—who had served two masters hell-bent on destroying him for as long as she had been living—feel trapped. And he would, she thought, if she came to him asking for more than he had already given her. Dumbledore had pushed them together, linked them irreparably, and Hermione would be damned if she asked more of him.

“’My ‘nee!” called a drunken voice from the front entrance.

Hermione blinked, realizing that at some point she had settled in the ground floor parlor to think. A cup of cold half-drunk tea sat at her right hand, probably from Harry, who had known that she would not emerge long enough to look after herself.

“MY ‘NEE!” bellowed Ron making her wince.

Reluctantly Hermione rose and made her way into the hallway to greet her—Nimue help her—boyfriend.

“There y’are, my ‘nee,” Ron smiled vacuously at her. “Le’s go upstairsss.”

He smelled like cheap firewhiskey and cigarette smoke, a habit she detested and could not get him to quit. Ron reached for her and the thought of touching him made Hermione recoil in disgust. He overbalanced and fell flat on his face, his nose breaking with a sickening crunch.

Hermione let out a gusty sigh, reaching for her wand to turn him over, heal, and clean up his face. She cast a harsh scourgify over him for good measure uncaring if he felt raw for it when he woke. Based on his level of inebriation his headache would be too intense for him to notice anything else the next morning.

Levitating him up the stairs, Hermione deposited Ron in his bedroom and knocked on the master bedroom door just long enough to inform Harry of his return.

Her friend did not need to see her expression to guess at the state of the youngest male Weasley’s arrival. He had probably heard it in her voice.

“He’s drunk, isn’t he?”

“Egregiously.” 

Harry scrubbed a hand over his tired face. “I’ll ask Kreacher to give him a Hangover Cure in the morning.”

“You do that,” said Hermione sharply. Then she turned and shut herself in her own room because whatever she might have needed to get through the war, sharing a bedroom with that slovenly apostate was not one of them. 

She changed and lied down in bed, but her mind would not quiet enough for sleep. She kept seeing Severus when she closed her eyes, and Ron’s drunken arrival had made her tense. Well fine, she thought. There was a single solution for both problems. She twitched her wand at the door ensuring that she would be undiscovered.

Hermione slid her right hand under her pajama pants and trotted out a well-worn memory of her one and only night with Severus. It was his long capable fingers that stroked her apex now, not her own ink-stained digits. It was his hot breath and his dark, sinful chuckle in her ear. Hermione shivered, rubbing her clitoris harder as her arousal built, eyes closed and trying to remember.

I will fuck you, she heard in his silken voice. I will fuck you wringing every possible ounce of pleasure from your body. I will fuck you until you are mine.

He hadn’t said that, but sweet Circe she could imagine it. Oh, she could imagine it. 

She could imagine his skillful touch on her thighs, making her tremble with anticipation. She could imagine the pressure of his fingers inside her, curling with perfect accuracy. She could imagine his mouth on her breast, sucking while she squirmed and moaned. Her fingers stroked faster, greedily seeking release.

His long body pressed against hers. She could almost feel the hard press of his erection on her belly as he kissed her. Her anticipation soared at the look in his dark eyes. Her clitoris throbbed in time with her heart and insistent fingers. Her underwear was damp with her desire. Her nipples ached. She wished his cock was in her.

Please, she thought. Want you.

Distantly, from the depths of her memory: say it properly, witch!

“Severus,” she cried as her pleasure crested, a relaxing wash of bliss all through her core. Hermione sighed, turning her head to one side, eyes closed, savoring the last hint of her fantasy. 

A drunken snore from the floor below jolted her rudely from the soft glow of orgasm. Hermione bit down on the urge to run downstairs and hex Ron to pieces. 

It wasn’t worth the effort.

For that matter was anything in her relationship—she scoffed at the very word—worth the effort? At this stage the only thing that kept them together was her loyalty to Ron.

But why should she be loyal? He was not. In the midst of the worst part of the war, he had abandoned her. He had run away, leaving them alone, wounded and despairing, stomping on what little hope they had managed to cobble together. It had been Severus who saved them, even if he did not know it. He had been the tiny glimmer of optimism that had allowed Hermione to cling to hope, and with her, Harry. 

So why was she so determined to make herself miserable with Ron? Ron was not loyal. He was not trustworthy or resourceful. His greatest worry was when his next meal would arrive under his nose. His greatest fear was being overshadowed by a wizard who wanted nothing more than to step out of the limelight.

Ron was uncomplicated, she realized, easy. Severus was not and never would be. Every moment would be a challenge, and perhaps that scared her. It would be a relationship fraught with complications, but gods damn it, when had she ever run from a challenge before? And it would be a challenge, to be sure, for both of them.

Do you believe me incapable of such a task, whispered a dark corner of her, and she could almost believe that it was he who had spoken. 

No, she thought. I do not believe you incapable of anything.

Then why do you believe that Dumbledore forced this?

Hermione shot upright in her bed. Severus?

Her memories did not do justice to the dark chuckle, nor could she spark such an intense heat from recall alone.

What do you think, witch?

Heat of an entirely different sort rose in her cheeks. So it had not been her, but his actual voice speaking those words while she touched herself. No wonder it had felt so good. Her own fingers did not usually inspire such pleasure.

Oh gods, Severus, I… I would never… I didn’t mean…

If you tell me, you did not intend to put me in your fantasy I will know you are lying. We are bound with sex magic, witch. Did you think I have not noticed that you often think of me while you pleasure yourself?

She was so mortified that she did not notice the warmth in his voice, the gentle teasing until he continued.

If you wanted more, little minx, you should have asked.

She had the sense of his mind fading as the bond returned to dormancy. The blush took a long time to fade from her cheeks. 

When she finally woke the next morning, Hermione took a shower, fought briefly with her hair, and snatched a piece of toast off Harry’s plate before heading for the front door.

“Hermione?” her best friend called after her.

“I’m going to talk to Severus,” she told him, more confidently than she felt.

Harry smiled gently without a hint of smugness. “I thought you might. You just needed to think about it.”

She felt a blush coming on so proceeded quickly to the front step where she could disapparate.

Hermione appeared in front of a little cottage in Cornwall near the town of St. Ives. Late in the war Severus had told her of the location as a safe house of last resort. She knew that this was where he had gone to escape the public eye, knew it like she knew Harry retreated into Sirius’s old room when he needed to be alone. Severus was here now. She could tell by the warmth of the bond in the back of her head. It was always warm when he was close.

The little bronze bell gave a soft pleasing ring when she pulled the rope, but she suspected Severus had known she was present the moment she appeared. Hermione tried not to bounce nervously while she waited.

The door opened and the man himself stood before her, his black coat button impeccably, his eyes as black an abyss as any she had seen. Hermione swallowed.

“Miss Granger,” he greeted her without a hint that they had conversed the night before.

Hermione took a long breath.

“You told me once that I would generally find your door open should I find myself in need of assistance,” she said. “I am not in need of assistance, but,” she plunged forward with all the boldness of a Gryffindor, “is your door still open to me?”

His eyes danced with dark flames and laughter.

“For you, Hermione, always.”

Hermione smiled and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never intended to add a third chapter, but enough people asked so I did. Thank you PeachesxAndxTea for your encouragement. I am open to requests but this fic is absolutely finished.


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